


these hollow bones

by Acacius



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Wakes & Funerals, the tags make this sound deeper than it is... but really this is just a vent/cathartic piece for me, this is presumably set sometime after s1/right after madeline’s funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acacius/pseuds/Acacius
Summary: Nandor stumbles upon a life cut short and does what he can to set things right.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	these hollow bones

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to reiterate the tw for animal death here (though not caused by any of the vamps). It’s not graphic, but it is the driving action of this fic so just keep that in mind.

_**“VOICE(S) from the coffin: What you killed you should also love.”** _

- _Hamletmachine_ , Heiner Muller (tr. by Dennis Redmond)

.

.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Nandor says, scooping the dead animal into his careful hands. Even in the dark, his keen eyes easily find and trace the fallen bird nest buried in the melting frost. It was a dreadfully cold spring in Staten Island—so cold that Nandor was wearing his furs and still felt the chill like a shard of ice pressed against his chest.

“You never had a chance, did you?” he asks, though he knows better than to expect an answer.

Vampires had dominion over animals, this was true—and Nandor was better than most when it came to communicating with creatures—but not even vampires could communicate with the dead like this. Necromancy, séances, these were dark arts that could bridge the gap between the living, dead, and undead, but Nandor cared little for the actual practices.

Half-hidden in the shadow of the looming oak, Nandor strokes the soft, dowry feathers of the fledgling, shutting the dead bird’s eyes with a gentleness that even surprised himself.

Centuries had passed since he was mortal, but he still remembered what it felt like to die—however impermanent that state had ultimately been for him. Perhaps that was why he found himself holding the dead animal with such care. Despite how entwined his unlife was with death, his heart still sunk heavy in his chest at the sight of something so young and sweet robbed too soon of its breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, glancing a final time at the upturned nest. “I’m sorry I did not notice you sooner, little one. But I will make things right.”

The bird, the last of its nest and most likely the smallest of its siblings, had just begun to sprout its flight feathers, but not enough to actually keep it from plummeting to its cold, untimely demise. It was probably only days away from being physically mature enough to fly, dead just on the cusp of adolescence.

It is unfair, Nandor thinks, how short a life the fledgling had gotten. When his thoughts naturally start to drift to human lifespans, to how quickly they wilted, yellowed husks trampled by the unyielding flow of time, he forces himself to start walking back towards the house.

It did no good to dwell on things beyond his power. He was Nandor the Relentless—a warrior, a vampire, and effectively immortal—and that was enough. It had to be.

**

If Nadja or Laszlo had found the bird, Nandor was sure they would want to turn it into another taxidermy piece. There were a few display cases that the vampires had left empty, more than sure that another creature would come stumbling into their lives that they could later enshrine in glass.

It is no surprise then that he calls on Guillermo for guidance instead. His familiar had plenty of experience burying dead human bodies, after all.

What he doesn’t expect is for Colin Robinson to make an appearance in the backyard, his usual beige wardrobe supplemented with a heavy brown coat and woolen earmuffs.

“Oh, burying a body?” the energy vampire asks, angling his head to get a better look at the small, shallow grave that Guillermo had dug. “Damn. Did Laszlo eat another baby?”

“Hush, Colin Robinson. It is not a human baby. It is a baby bird.” At the other man’s expression, Nandor bristles. “Don’t look at me like that! You know I don’t eat animals. I merely found the birdie frozen in the backyard.”

“Uh-huh…” Colin trails, clearly unconvinced. He turns to Guillermo, eyes flashing a familiar blue. “This must be a nice change for you. Birds are nowhere near as heavy as humans. Actually, I was watching this documentary last night and—“

Nandor groans. “Please don’t ruin this birdie’s funeral.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”

A few moments of peaceful silence pass and Nandor almost begins to believe that the energy vampire is being sincere for once.

But of course he isn’t. Nandor’s peaceable smile fades.

“Avians naturally evolved to possess hollow bones, believe it or not. Imagine that—no marrow, none of the good stuff that you blood-drinking vampires like, right? I actually don’t know what nutritional value human blood has that, like, a smoothie doesn’t. Do you know why it has to be human blood—not animal blood or synthetic blood or the blood they use on movie sets—“

“Enough, Colin Robinson. Do you have a point with your monologue or are you simply here to drain us?”

Colin frowns, the blue in his eyes fading. “Well, I saw you looking all sad and mopey—“

“I do not mope. I especially do not mope over dead birdies.”

The energy vampire gives an eye-roll. “Anyway… I thought I’d check in. Make sure Guillermo here was able to break through the ground with that old shovel.”

“I’m managing just fine,” Guillermo says, huffing out a breath. There is some sweat on his brow from the exertion, no doubt having struggled to break through the icy ground with a cheap shovel stained with blood.

Nandor makes a point to clear his throat, sweeping an arm out to still Guillermo’s movements.

“That is deep enough. Go inside and warm up—I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

Guillermo furrows his brows, obviously confused. “But what about the actual burial?”

“I can handle it.” At his familiar’s expression, Nandor hisses sourly. “What? You think I cannot manage pouring dirt over a bird? I led hundreds of soldiers into battle and yet grave-digging is beyond my capabilities?”

“Well, you did accidentally call the cops to the house last week when you tried using Guillermo’s phone,” Colin points out. “Laszlo had a Hell of a time hypnotizing all those officers.”

“That’s a mistake anyone could make,” Nandor replies sharply, looking to Guillermo for assurance.

The human smiles softly, nodding his head. It quiets any self-doubt the vampire might have possessed.

“Anyway,” Nandor begins, gesturing towards the house. “You both can go now. I will finish up.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Guillermo asks, voice thick with concern. 

Colin looks at Guillermo before returning his gaze to Nandor. If it wasn’t for the underlying glibness, Nandor would hazard to think that the energy vampire was also genuinely concerned. “I don’t mind staying for an avian funeral. I’ve been to a lot of funerals—they’re very fertile feeding ground for energy vampires—but I’ve never been to a bird’s funeral before. Well, there was that swan one time, but it didn’t actually stay dead.”

Nandor almost wants to ask for more details, but stops himself at the last moment. He knew better than to ask the energy vampire anything out of sheer curiosity.

“I’ll be fine. Really. It is just a bird,” Nandor replies, the little shoebox in his hands feeling much heavier than it did a moment ago. He keeps his expression stern, not wanting either of his housemates to begin to think he was going soft, that the years had made him fragile in a way that he was not as a living, breathing human.

Vampires were not accustomed to death like humans were. Death did not come for them; rather, they were orchestrators of death themselves. They did not have much to fear aside from a rogue hunter or an errant ray of sunlight. So when something or someone he cared about did die, it always came as a surprise to Nandor. He never anticipated death, yet it still arrived routinely at his door, made a place for itself in his home, in the swaying branches of the trees in the backyard. 

Nandor’s frown deepens; he hopes it looks like anger. 

Hesitantly, both men comply, slinking off into the dark.

Nandor watches his housemates’ departing figures, an emotion he can’t quite place at first squeezing tirelessly at his heart. He has to bite back the reflex to call out for Guillermo, to ask him what feeling he is feeling.

He recognizes the emotion a moment later. _Grief_ , Nandor thinks, the word stirring the same visceral blow it had the first time Guillermo had said it after Madeline’s death. _I do not care for it._

Nandor closes his eyes. Listens to the sounds of the night. He could hear the squeal of rubber against asphalt as cars approached the nearby stop sign, could hear Shaun and Charmaine giggling on their porch, dancing to whatever pop song was playing softly from a Bluetooth speaker. Listening further, Nandor could hear the whoosh of bird wings, an owl having scooped up a rodent with its taloned claws, could hear one of the koi fish in the pond breach the surface, tail flicking out over the water with a quiet splash.

The box in his gloved hands made no sound as he stooped to the ground, placing it in the shallow grave. It fits snugly in the space Guillermo made for the bird.

Nandor begins to shovel dirt over the box, the thud of soil over cardboard punctuating the act. When he’s done, he stares at the tiny grave. He thinks about what Colin Robinson had said about the hollow space inside the bird’s bones and wonders if vampires’ bones could be just as hollow. Some nights, it felt like vampirism had whittled him away, gnawed through his marrow and left him with only coldness and an insatiable hunger.

It was no wonder that some vampires went mad—that it was rumored that madness was inevitable for all vampires. The older he got, the longer he spent walking in the shadows, the more Nandor almost believed the sentiment to be true.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the third time that night, dark eyes flickering from the grave to the tree that the bird had tumbled from. “But at least you can rest now,” he finishes, letting the words fall from his mouth like a confession.

His voice carries alone through the icy gusts of wind and into the unforgiving night.

**

At the door, Colin ushers Guillermo inside before him.

Guillermo raises a brow but enters anyway, casting a hesitant glance back at the energy vampire.

Colin smiles. Guillermo is too polite to run off—he could potentially get a quick snack before searching the house for Laszlo and Nadja.

“So there’s this misnomer about bird bones, you know. People think it’s about making the bird lighter so it can fly more easily. But that’s not why their bones are hollow. Hollow bones are more often called pneumatized bones—they allow for more space for air. This helps the bird access more oxygen as it flies.”

Guillermo blinks, surprise flickering across his face. “That’s… actually really interesting.”

“I know. I’m a sucker for avian facts.” Colin pauses. “I was going to snack on you, but I’m not feeling it anymore—I need a big meal. Funerals always make me hungry… so later, dude! I’m going to see if Nadja and Laszlo are ready to hit the town.”

Guillermo shakes his head at the energy vampire’s departure. Rarely did Colin Robinson let him off the hook like that. Maybe he too was secretly worried for Nandor. Guillermo shrugs the thought away a moment later; it never did much good to dwell on the energy vampire’s motives.

With nothing more to do aside from waiting for Nandor to return, Guillermo busies himself with cleaning up the vampire’s crypt. He dusts and sweeps the floor before settling down to clean one of Nandor’s swords. As he stares into his own reflection cast in the metal, he can’t help but notice the lines in his own face, the signs of age that hadn’t been there a year ago.

His thoughts drift naturally to the morbid. _If Nandor doesn’t turn me_ , he thinks, wiping the cloth rhythmically over the sharp blade, _I’m sure he’ll be the one digging my grave._

One way or another, he was sure Nandor would be at his side when he died—whether it was in preparation for becoming a vampire… or the final, mortal death of a human expiring from age and disease.

When Nandor returns to his crypt, clothes covered in grave dirt, Guillermo has a strange premonition that it won’t be the last time he sees Nandor like this. He sets the thought aside and—as he has done thousands of nights before—helps the vampire into a new change of vestments. 


End file.
